


Mi Familia

by UnshoddenShipper



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Bad Spanish, Child Abandonment, Domestic Fluff, Happy Ending, Homophobia, M/M, Swearing, Team as Family, Trans Male Character, referenced transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 15:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4711307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnshoddenShipper/pseuds/UnshoddenShipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rough starts don't mean you can't create something better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mi Familia

One of the first words Simmons learned is “disappointment”. He acquired it with all the usual baby words; mommy, daddy, dollhouse, plastic. Phrases like _undermining_ follow shortly after, along with “constantly criticizing”, and “trans” and “closet”.

He is young and he trusts his parents and the message _you are never good enough_ fills his heart up with weight. He grows older and learns it’s not normal; grows older and gets angry. But lines are blurry and when Mom says she loves him, he knows she’s dysfunctional but she means it, and that makes everything worse- Richard wonders if he loves her too, or if this is pity and resentment. Dad’s distant and composed and doesn’t say he loves him, and that’s _fine_ , who cares. Simmons doesn’t.

Simmons doesn’t.

Dad brings up trying for girl’s volleyball again- read: _maybe you wouldn't be such an embarrassment to me_ \- and he sighs. They’ve had this fight before; just like him, mathletes isn't good enough. Dad says it would be beneficial for him to get out and make friends with “other girls”.

Richard’s just keeping his head down until he can get the hell out of here.

\- - -

One of the first lessons Grif learns is responsibility.

After Kai is born, he peeks between the bars of her crib, watches her kick her chubby legs. She’s always so _excited_ about something, cooing and shrieking and breathing heavy through that tiny baby mouth. He’ll reach his hand in and let her grab his fingers, smile as she squeals, gumming at them and squeezing tight as she can. 

He’s leaning his head against the bars, watching his sister as she dozes, all dark eyelashes and the rise and fall of her bitty chest. He feels Dad’s hand on his shoulders, tears his eyes away just long enough to look up. The man smiles at him, and he ditches them so soon Grif doesn’t remember him at all.

When he’s a teen, Mom leaves too. And it’s like they’re playing house- he’s the fake single dad. And fake-dads don’t get to go to high school; they go to work. They work two jobs. They pay bills, they put clothes on Kai’s back and pencils in her hand, and walk her to the bus stop every morning. Fake-dads go to her every gymnastics competition, and sit at the table budgeting with a calculator and a blue pen, and fake-dads feel like there’s an anvil over their head held by a fishing line.

Sometimes, sometimes, he can relax and be Dex. They'll sprawl on the couch together and watch a movie, or he'll paint her nails as she fidgets and hums. He'll bring a glass of water and tuck Kai into bed and in those moments, it's okay.

\- - -

One of the first facts Donut learns is that some people say and do things they don’t mean. 

And his dad wasn’t one of them.

After word got out of Franklin being sent to a gay conversion camp (long, long since banned in all 49 United States), a grey car was driving up the dusty dirt road. Corn stalks rustled with the breeze as professional looking women in suits stepped out, and the front door clattered as Dad went out to meet them. 

Donut was in his room, on the bed. He sat on his knees, hands pressed against glass, watching from the window with a numbness that had swallowed him for months. He couldn’t tell what was being said, but his father stood wringing his hands.

Frank much preferred being at school than home. At school he could talk about things he liked; share his friend's styling cream and fluff his hair up nice; be awesome at double dutch and wear lip gloss. He practiced for drama and used glitter gel pens and wore bracelets. All these little things made him happy, and he wasn't hurting anybody but his father always looked at them- at him- with something deeply troubled in his face. So before he went home, he'd comb his hair down again; stash the bracelets. He'd wet a paper towel and wipe the color from his mouth. Frank didn't know why his father was so miserable when he saw him enjoying himself- but Donut hated it.

A week before his school’s theater performance, Social Services was knocking on the door with a court order and Donut had already packed his bags. His dad openly wept; leaned down and hugged him tight to his chest. He sobbed with big, hot tears and told Frank he loved him; said, Christ, he was just trying to make his son _normal_.

Donut looped his arms around his heaving shoulders and squeezed back; told his father _I love you too_ , even though he didn’t mean it anymore.

\- - -

One of the first skills Colonel Sarge learns is not giving a shit about what anybody has to say. He kept his chin up when the taxi dropped him off, strode right past all the neighbors and felt eyes follow him all the way to his estranged grandmas’ door.

His parents' love and support had some fine print, turned out.

With nowhere else to go, he called these strangers and they took him in. He could hardly believe it over the phone. He’d never met them before and they just... He learned quickly why the family had turned its back on them, too. His grandmothers, who looped their arms around each other’s waists in the grocery store and didn’t give a shit he wore a binder. On hot summer days they ran barefoot with him around the yard; the trio spraying each other with squirt guns, shrieking. They bought a sidecar for him, gave him a pair of goggles, so he could ride along with their motorcycle. They taught him many things- the difference in wines, and how drive a boat, and how to make pie crust. They taught him how to shoot bottles and, once he was good enough, took him out into the country to launch clay pigeons. Reading didn't come easy, but they helped him with that too. He practiced for hours, working through the words slowly but gaining confidence. He sat on the porch swing reading aloud, as one would work in the garden or sip sweet tea beside him.

They showed him love doesn’t come with disclaimers and the way to love is _fierce._

Settled into Armonia, Sarge mounts a tattered Blood Gulch Red Army flag above his desk, and keeps two old fashioned pictures on his bedside table. One, featuring a dozen misfits out of armor; the other, just two little old ladies.

\- - -

Sarge tells Lopez repeatedly he’s like a son. _Cuando las ranas crien pelo._ Lopez La Pesado has no father; no gods, no masters. These _perdedores_ keep trying to drag him into their fucked up Brady Bunch family of choice but he will not be made part of… this. The Reds always set him a spot at the table for dinner, and it’s ridiculous because he doesn’t eat and he tells them that. 

But he sits at the place prepared for him, and participates in the conversations and he doesn’t know why.

The _hombre gordo naranja_ is wearing Donut’s cherry oven mitts as he sets enchiladas on the table. Sarge pulls up a chair- “Now that looks pretty good, dirtbag!” -and Grif bows graciously.

“You _know_ I live to please, Sarge.”

Doc’s grabbing a seat too, and he’s such a throwback to younger, wilder days of robot armies and taking over the world together. Lopez leans his elbows by his empty plate, makes a gibe at him about breaking apart from _rosada de la princesa_ long enough to eat. Doc says he’s great, thanks for asking. Lopez asks O’Malley how things are going in the henpecked husband department and _dios mio_ , look at this. Donut’s setting out juice and ice trays. He can’t even be surprised this dinner table is where the three of them ended up.

Simmons is rooting around in the fridge but Grif makes an _ah-ah-ah!_ sound, walking past and grabs a smaller pan out of the oven. He gestures to it with a flourish and cocky grin- evidently it’s something that complies with the cyborg’s self-imposed dietary restrictions. Simmons is obviously pleased by this and Lopez can’t begin to imagine, could not give a shit less what the big deal about food was.

With everybody situated and chatter rolling it was only a time before something happened. Donut’s holding a one-way conversation with him when Lopez feels it- pressure. The long, purposeful tracing of a foot against his.

If he had eyes, he would have rolled them so far back into his head he’d have gone permanently blind.

There’s a pause wherein his mystery fuck up waits for a response, and gets none. So he tries again, trailing his toes up Lopez’s calf.

“ _¡Dejar de tocar mi pie!_ ” He announces to the group at large. 

“An excellent point, compadre!” Sarge raps his hand on the table, and gives an affectionate, gruff chuckle.

Whoever is doing this is some kind of footsie veteran, because there is no indication anywhere of covert activity. Not one twitching mouth, no reddening face- there’s only one thing to do.

He brings his boot up and smashes their toes into the ground.

Grif leaps out of his chair, knees banging the table and clattering the plates. “OW! _Goddamit!_ ”

“ _¡Eso es lo que obtienes!_ ”

Expletives of concern and confusion ripple around the table as Grif clutches his foot, leaning near out of his chair and shoots Simmons a dirty look. “What the hell?!”

“Why are you looking at me? I didn’t do that!”

“What do you mean you didn’t-” He falters, face going from pissed to alarmed. He glances wide-eyed around the group. “Nevermind.”

“ _Fui yo._ ”

"Well then, who did?"

“ _Fui yo. Lo merecías._ ”

“Lopez is right!” Donut chirps. He sits up straight, splays his hands on either side of his plate. “Looks like we got a mystery on our hands, guys!”

The congregation erupts into groans.

“Ok, I have the biggest weakness for dinner theater, and I have like a dozen kits we could choose from-”

“No way, Donut.” Sarge folds his arms, regarding the pink soldier fondly.

“But Sa _-arge_! We just have to swap out 'murder' for Grif's foot. We all get a roll to play, surrendering ourselves to _drama_ and intrigue. And we dress up!”

“I’m interested,” Doc offers.

 _“I’m sure you are,”_ Simmons mutters into his specialty enchiladas.

The grizzled man hums, leaning back in his chair; breathes deep and regards his men. He takes an unhurried sip of juice, smacking his lips. "Alright, Powder Puff. Let's see what games you got."

" _Dios mio._ "

"No, **NO** -"

" _Whaaat?_ You're kidding! Sir, please tell me you're-"

"Oh my god, Sarge!" Donut springs to his feet, flinging his arms around him tight. "You are the best!"


End file.
